


Tempered In Ice

by cerie



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 10:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2847719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is no love in me,” she says thickly and when Thranduil looks back at her with knowing eyes, she knows her words to be false.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempered In Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Waterfights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterfights/gifts).



> Spoilers for The Battle of Five Armies

_It hurts because it was real_

Thranduil’s words haunt her steps all the way back from Dale to Mirkwood. Tauriel thinks that if this is love, she wants nothing of it. She wants to be cold and as immovable as stone, to let time wash over her without any effect. She wants not to feel anything because her heart feels as if it’s been rent in two and stitched together hastily without regard for pain. 

Her heart, she thinks, will never be whole again. She feels like part of it is buried under the mountain with Kili and will never be right. Perhaps the grief is yet too near for her to process and she must separate herself from it, divorce herself from the emotions that sent her plunging down, down, down into the dark. 

She rides back with her king, sharing a horse as his mount was among those lost in battle this day. His face, like her own, is smeared with the black of orc blood mingled with that of his own and his hair gleams silver in the starlight. The moon is weak and pale this cold winter night and Tauriel thinks that suits her mood just fine. She wishes it were darker still, dark enough that she might blot out the stars that make her think of Kili. 

“Is this how it felt? When she passed, is this how it felt?” Thranduil is pressed against her back and his lips are soft against her ear as he whispers. He’s never been so close to her before and it is a strange feeling, an unnerving feeling. It is one that Tauriel is not entirely certain is good but she is hesitant to think ill of it. 

“I do not speak of her, Tauriel. She is buried.”

Even if he does not speak of her, the timbre of his voice is rough and warm, scraped over the rocks, and seems as raw as she feels. Even after centuries, it seems, it still pains him. Tauriel thinks she must be wrong about there being no love in Thranduil - even if it is only in ten words, there is love yet in Thranduil, King of Mirkwood. She has heard it with her own ears.

***

A season passes, then another. The memory of an Elf is long, painfully so, and Tauriel is beginning to understand the peril in loving a mortal. Each year she treks to the cold, cold mountain and pays her respects to Kili, the sister-son of the great Thorin Oakenshield, and each year her steps feel leaden on her return to Mirkwood. She skips a year, then two, then it is only once a decade that she makes the trip. It is difficult to keep coming, to know that even had he lived he would be growing older now and not the young dwarf she’d come to know in Mirkwood’s dungeons. Each year, he would have changed while she remained the same.

It is dark and quiet in the city when she returns and while she thinks her footsteps are light, her return does not go unnoticed. It is Thraunduil who meets her at the gates, his cloak and hair silvery in the pale moonlight. He offers a cup and she takes it without giving words in return, tipping it back and letting the wine warm her throat and belly. It’s not enough to make her drunk but it is enough to dull the keen edge of her pain, to make it bearable for a while. Even after all these years, it cleaves her in two to visit his grave. 

“When does it stop hurting, my lord?” 

Thranduil’s smile is just the barest curve of lips and his brows draw together, pain written on his exquisite face. “Dear Tauriel, when it is real, it never stops hurting. The ache is always there, just here, and never eases.” 

He presses two fingers against her breast and her heart quickens, thumps against his hand. “It never ceases. You can numb it with drink or war or folly but always, _always_ does it hurt. It is better to excise it, to cut it cleanly from you so you can no longer feel the twist of it. Love is pain, Tauriel. Love is always pain.” 

She draws closer, just a breath away, and when he speaks again, his lips are against hers. “It is easier to push everyone away than risk that pain once more. You said there was no love in me, Tauriel. You said that I knew nothing of love. I know more of love than any elf could ever know and I know I want no part in it. I never want to feel again.” 

Tauriel closes her eyes and presses her lips to his in a crushing kiss. If love is pain, if love is a sharp knife twisted in her heart, then she should share her pain with the only other being who understands it. She will _make_ him feel, make it known that he cannot escape grief no matter how hard he tries. 

She knows she’s won when his fingers curl against the slippery silk of her cloak and rend it in two.

***

He brings her to his bed that night. Tauriel pushes at him with hot fire and passion and anger, with every emotion she can summon about Kili and Legolas and even Thranduil himself, these men that she’s loved. She pushes and pokes at the wound and forces it to burn hot while Thranduil pushes back with cold. He’s cut himself off from everyone, from his kingdom and his kin, and Tauriel means to bring him back.

Their fingers are deft against their clothes, peeling them away as if they were nothing and when he pushes her back against his bed, the silk of the sheets is cool against her skin. He covers her, knees on either side of her hips and Tauriel allows it for but a moment before she grips him with her thighs and finds enough leverage to flip them; she’s always been the stronger of them, the one more willing to push and fight. Thranduil allows her the advantage and his hands find her hips and grip them, fingers pushing into soft flesh. 

Tauriel rubs herself against him for a few moments before his hands begin to wander. His long fingers stroke and rub at her, stoking yet another fire, and she’s angry that he still seems collected beneath her. She is all fire, every nerve of her body, and Thranduil seems to be nothing but ice. She sinks down onto him and he lets her ride him, his hands slipping up her waist to cup her high breasts. It is rough, in ways, and raw, but it seems to be a balm the way her pilgrimage to Kili’s grave has not been. When Thranduil’s fingers bring her to a peak over and over again, her cry is wordless and her thoughts, for once, are not of Kili. 

Her lord king is the only thing that fills her mind.

***

It never truly stops hurting. It eases when she is in his bed or when he comes to hers and one misty morning some years hence she finds that she barely thinks of Kili at all. The wind catches her hair and braids fire and ice, cleaving her with Thranduil even if he would not have a permanent attachment.

“There is no love in me,” she says thickly and when Thranduil looks back at her with knowing eyes, she knows her words to be false. 

She was wrong about him. She always has been.


End file.
